


If There Ain't No You

by abnosomesouls



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Angsty Schmoop, Boys Kissing, Demon Dean Winchester, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, I have no answers, M/M, Not Beta Read, POV Alternating, Schmoop, Season/Series 08 Spoilers, Season/Series 09 Spoilers, Season/Series 10, just a lot of sad season 9 feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-07
Updated: 2014-10-07
Packaged: 2018-02-20 07:48:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2420822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abnosomesouls/pseuds/abnosomesouls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Guess he should’ve listened to those warnings Cain wanted to give him after all. At the time he hadn’t cared about anything except gaining the ability to kill Abbadon, to clean up at least one of his messes, since he couldn’t fix things with Sam. Everything else had paled in importance.</p>
<p>And now he’s a demon.</p>
<p>Physically, he feels great. He hasn’t felt this rested and ready and almost… renewed, since Cas put him back together after the Pit. Other than that, he feels…</p>
<p><i>Holyshitholyshitholyshit.</i>”</p>
<p>Picks up directly after the end of the season 9 finale.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If There Ain't No You

**Author's Note:**

> I got a comment on another fic a few months ago asking if I would write season 10, which is where this came from. I kept changing my mind about what I wanted to do with it, and all the excess tweaking plus my lack of time to write is why it took me so long. I really wanted it posted before the start of season 10 though, so here it is. (It’s not important that I only made it a few hours before the premiere, the important thing is that I made it. So there.)
> 
> This fic takes place directly after the end of the season 9 finale. Directly after, as in, picks up from the last ten minutes of the episode and continues from there, which means that I’ve taken some of the lines verbatim and used what I needed to set the scene. None of these lines/characters/gorgeous actors belong to me in any way of course, even though I keep wishing. (We’ll see.) I tried not to make it too redundant where I did have to use a few lines, so hopefully it turned out alright. This is also not my usual thing because generally I'm all about the fluff and cuteness, so hopefully my attempt at angst doesn't suck too bad.

 

***

_Dean Winchester is dead._

The news echoes hollowly through Heaven, its only importance gained in the twisted pleasure of delivery and the heavy weight of numbness is brings. Castiel goes utterly still for an endless moment; his chest feels like it’s caved in on itself and his ears are ringing, vessel and ragged grace sharing strength to throw up an impenetrable wall of denial.

_No_.

Castiel feels his stomach tighten with dread when he finally brings himself to meet Metatron’s eyes. There’s madness there, yes, and a vengeful need for power born of neglect, but there is no deceit. Only—glee.

It’s sickening.

Unparalleled rage and grief well up inside Castiel in equal measure, temporarily overshadowing all his other senses with the feeling that he will burst apart at the seams at any second. If he were at full power the fortress-like structure surrounding them would have been reduced to nothing more than a smoking pile of rubble in less than a blink, Metatron be damned. As it is, the force of Castiel’s wrath gathers like a black storm cloud, building along with the tension in his body, until it breaks and resonates throughout the earth and skies.

There are earthquakes in California as have not been seen in centuries, lightning storms over the savannah in Africa, rolling blackouts in every major metropolis in the world. Fault lines tremble and volcanoes rumble threateningly. The air wavers and crackles, as if the fabric of reality has been dealt a stunning blow. Murmurs of the second coming of the Apocalypse begin spreading and gathering steam in small towns haunted by memories of Lucifer.

Oblivious to the turmoil on Earth, Castiel finally manages to regain the edges of that initial numbness, pulls it around and blankets himself in it in order to finish what must be done. Metatron is still talking, and Castiel is at once shackled to a chair, being forced to listen to the delusional ramblings of probably the most sociopathic being he’s ever had the misfortune to meet.

_What would Dean do in this situation?_

The thought brings with it a sharp twinge, and Castiel wraps himself in the blanket of nothingness more tightly. Most likely Dean would aim a series of snarky comments at his captor, choosing reckless provocation as a last resort in the face of his helplessness, because that’s who Dean was—is—but above all he would be thinking, always considering every angle possible to finish the job and stay alive. So that’s what Castiel must do. He must complete his task and find a way to reveal Metatron’s true nature to the rest of the angels; otherwise all of Dean’s work will have been in vain. Once they see that Metatron is a false leader, they will overthrow him and open the passage to return to Heaven.

Then, he will find Dean.

Because Castiel can’t—he won’t believe that Dean is truly dead until he sees for himself. Another lesson he’s learned from his best friend over these past years: never accept the status quo.

So he keeps Metatron talking. It’s not that hard really; the former scribe certainly loves the sound of his own voice. He accuses Metatron of deceiving the angels, to which he happily admits, blaming it on their submissive nature. _Yes, this is what they need to hear. Keep going._ He’s careful not to look too closely at the light on the microphone on the side table, suddenly glowing more brightly than ever. Finally, he sees his opening.

Metatron raises an angel blade in both hands, covered in blood. Castiel adamantly refuses to consider to whom the dull red substance once belonged. “You never learned to tell a good story,” Metatron finishes almost pityingly.

Castiel leans forward. “No, but you did,” and he looks pointedly at the microphone, broadcasting Metatron’s evil to the entirety of angelkind.

He has no time to appreciate the look of horror spreading over Metatron’s features, as Hannah and the others burst into the room. Suddenly the roles are reversed, he is free and his captor is now bound. He takes the blade and holds it up to Metatron’s throat, for one perfect moment imagining the vindictive thrill he would experience were he to drive it through the flesh of Metatron’s unimpressive vessel, how he wouldn’t even shield his eyes at the explosion of grace. How he would welcome it.

But then he remembers— _Dean_.

So he orders Metatron locked in the very jail to which he’d so recently consigned Castiel and Gadreel, rebuffing Hannah’s attempt to praise his leadership abilities.

“I’m no leader. I just wanna be an angel.” Dean’s angel.

But Hannah has to go and remind him that he’s existing on borrowed time, stolen grace. She’s right; if he doesn’t figure out something soon, his grace will burn out and he will die, and not even God Himself would be able to bring him back this time. But it’s not something that will happen right away, and he doesn’t have time to think about that now.

There are more important things.

_I’m coming._

 

 

Sam kneels on the cold hard floor of the dungeon, head hung low. He thinks of his brother’s body, lying still in his bedroom. He’d carried Dean here after the frantic drive back to the bunker, placed him ever so gently on his beloved memory foam. The cuts and bruises all over Dean’s face stood out as angry red splotches against the unnatural paleness of his skin. Sam couldn’t bear to see his brother this way, and headed for the library to try and drown himself in a bottle, a trusted Winchester family tradition. But even that hadn’t helped. It couldn’t take away the twisting feeling of _wrong_ burrowing deeper inside him, couldn’t make him warm again.

So he’d decided that no, he won’t just sit in the dark and drink himself into oblivion. He’s going to do something constructive, something positive, something that will actually help Dean. And he knows just the person to call.

He gathers the items for the summoning ritual by rote, having gone through this exact same process too many times to count. He works on autopilot, focusing on the movement of his hands, the reach of his arms, and not on the possibilities for failure, because as far as Sam’s concerned there is no possibility of failure at this point.

He has to focus on getting Crowley here; make sure the chalk lines are straight and unblemished, the ingredients in the bowl are fresh, the flame catches quickly and burns strongly. Even if the bastard makes him wait, he will wait as long as he has to because Crowley has to come. He has to come fix this, because Sam…

He can’t.

He can’t do this, not again.

Dean can’t be gone.

He’s been angry with Dean for months, so angry because of what he did; Sam had actually believed it would have been better if Dean just let him die because ever since the church and the trials he can’t escape the feeling of being utterly useless. He was a liability. He couldn’t defend himself against angel possession, couldn’t even manage not to let his own body be turned into a weapon against Kevin. If he couldn’t even do that, then what good was he?

So he’d lashed out at Dean and told him he wouldn’t do the same. Wouldn’t save his brother.

But seeing that angel blade sink into Dean’s chest so easily had stopped Sam’s own heart. He couldn’t breathe, and it felt like every muscle in his body had seized with a sudden agonizing tetanus. He _hurt_. And instantly he’d known it was all bullshit, that the coldness of the last months was pointless because he would do anything for his brother. He only wishes he could take back all the crappy things he’d said so they could have at least had one more year of good times together.

He lights a match and stares at it a beat longer than necessary before tossing into the bowl. The ingredients flame up immediately, and Sam settles in to wait. The memory of Dean’s voice plays out in the back of his head, making one last desperate plea for Sam not to sacrifice himself. _There ain’t no me if there ain’t no you_. He understands completely.

So he kneels and stares into the flame until everything loses focus and the edges of his vision blur, because Crowley got Dean into this mess, and goddammit he’s going to get Dean out.

Sam won’t settle for any less.

 

 

Everything is black.

Dean is trapped in a swirling vacuum, a void of shadows and whispers, washed-out images flashing past and taunting him with his failures. Kevin, whom he couldn’t protect even in his own home; Abbadon, whom he accidentally set free, and who caused more of an uproar than anything they’d seen in years, killing dozens of good and innocent people before he finally got her; Cain sitting at his kitchen table, living a solitary life trying to atone for his centuries of bloodlust and senseless killing, the urge that Dean couldn’t shake; Sam, the little brother who depended on him as teenagers and who wanted nothing more than to escape him as adults; Cas, who is always just out of reach. Crowley, closer than ever.

He can’t move at all, can only watch as his disaster of a life parades before him but none of it is real. He tries to turn and follow the swishing of a trench coat but can’t; he’s trapped here, wherever this is. It’s not like the other times he’s died, where in a split second he was zapped from Earth to somewhere else: Heaven, Hell, Purgatory. Now he’s nowhere. He has no idea how he got here, and there are no clues as to the way out. He’s stuck. Alone.

It’s probably no more than he deserves, but oh how he wants to go back.

The blackness is passing all around him, and he realizes it’s also passing through him, as though it’s part of his chemical makeup and can blend in unnoticed. He doesn’t know what the blackness is but it’s freaking him out, and before he can go into full panic mode the sound of a voice, distinct from the whispers of memories, reaches his ears. He listens for a familiar rumble, but it sounds more like Crowley.

Slowly Crowley’s oily cadence shapes itself into discrete words, but they don’t make any sense. _Maybe miracles do come true… What you’re feeling right now, it’s not death… Open your eyes, Dean…_

There’s a feather-light touch at his elbow and he glances down, but nothing is there. Just as he registers that he was able to move, the words get louder, and accompanied by the sound of the wind in his ears, rushing noise rising, deafening, then everything is silent.

He opens his eyes.

 

 

Crowley surveys the still body on the bed. Dean Winchester, dead again. How any one person can manage to get himself killed quite so many times has always been something of a mystery to Crowley; and that’s even after he takes Dean’s smart mouth into account.

He settles back in his chair and calmly crosses one ankle over the opposite knee, considering. He can still hear the echoes of Dean’s moose of a brother trying to summon him from the dungeon, not knowing the object of his intense concentration is already here; desperate to find some way to bring his idiot brother back to life yet once more. But Crowley’s in no rush, because Sam will find out soon enough: Dean’s not dead.

Although when the princess twins discover at what cost, they might wish he were.

He begins speaking, telling Dean that there are even more nasty side effects to the Mark of Cain than Dean even suspected. There were stories, of course, but gossip spreads through Hell like syphilis through a brothel. He never gave them much credence, until today. How could anyone have known the potential fallout, besides Cain himself? And it’s not as if that bearded wonder was rushing to set the record straight, after all. Crowley can be blamed for none of this.

But it’s not all bad. If only Dean can let himself see, there’s a world of such opportunity opening to him now. He can finally appreciate what the other side is like—now that he’s one of them.

“Open your eyes. Let’s howl at that moon,” he urges, leaning over the side of the bed.

Dean’s eyelids pop open.

_Ah, there it is,_ Crowley thinks— _black_.

It’s so much more satisfying than he expected.

Dean stares at the ceiling for a few moments, obviously disoriented. Then he blinks and his eyes change back to their normal color. A bit of a letdown in Crowley’s opinion, but when has either of these two ever been anything else? Dean finally slides his gaze over to Crowley at his bedside, a look of consternation passing over his features.

Crowley gives Dean his best, toothiest smile. “Good morning, sunshine. Lovely to see you again.”

Dean doesn’t say anything right away, then out of nowhere he hauls off with a left hook to Crowley’s jaw, rolling to his feet and standing braced with the First Blade in front of him, ready.

“What do you want, you dick?” he demands.

Crowley’s having a little trouble responding right away, because _that hurt_. He’s holding his sore jaw, flexing it back and forth to make sure it’s still where it should be. Dean has punched him before, more than a few times, but it was never anything more than a nuisance to be brushed aside. Now, though, he faces a true adversary, someone more than a match for his own strength.

He smiles again, wider this time.

Dean stiffens even more, obviously wondering why he’s not angry or at the very least annoyed.

Crowley rolls his eyes. Always was a little slow on the uptake, this one. Had no appreciation for nuance or ingenuity.

“Why I just wanted to welcome you back to the land of the living, dear friend. You suspect I have more nefarious purposes in mind? I’m hurt Dean, truly. I thought we’d grown closer than that.” He smirks, deliberately annoying, and straightens from where he’d stumbled back. He can’t help it, a flummoxed Winchester is just so much fun, especially when one’s also feeling defensive.

Dean doesn’t disappoint. “Yeah, you know what? Fuck you. Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t kill you right now, because I gotta tell you, I can’t think of a thing.” He raises the Blade threateningly and takes a half-step closer, but Crowley doesn’t move.

“How do you feel?” he asks seriously, peering closely at Dean’s face.

“What?” Dean spits back gruffly.

“I said,” he repeats slowly—he enjoys confusing these idiots, but sometimes they’re just ridiculous, “how, do you feel? Different?” He inhales expectantly. “Better?”

“Friggin’ peachy, thanks for asking.” Dean won’t give an inch, but Crowley can see the dusty gears creaking to life in his mind. “Any more last words, or can we get this over with?”

Indeed. “You wouldn’t really try to murder your King, now would you?” he asks, affecting a hurt look. He can’t hold onto it for long though, and his satisfaction must be showing through because now the monkey looks confused and angry rather than defensive. “That would be mutiny, and we can’t have that, now can we?”

“What in the living hell are you babbling on about?” Dean asks impatiently. He takes another step forward, obviously intending to use the Blade on Crowley without even the decency to finish the conversation like a civilized human being.

Although, seeing as Dean’s not exactly human anymore, perhaps that’s to be expected.

“I mean that I am your King and you are one of mine now,” Crowley snaps. “Have you not wondered why you aren’t dead right now? Why you’ve merited a personal visit from an august body such as me? Metatron drove a bloody angel blade through your heart, ring any bells?” he sneers, eyebrows raised. Classic Winchester thickheadedness is robbing him of his fun, and this situation is too unique to be wasted. Who knows when he’ll ever get this chance again?

“You’re still here because of the Mark,” he declares, and waits for that to sink in.

Dean says, low and deadly, “Explain.”

“One of the side effects, guess you didn’t bother to read the Terms and Conditions when Cain gave you his little tattoo, hmm? A human is not strong enough to contain the power of the Mark, but it won’t let you die. Apparently it doesn’t want to be bound to a useless host. One can almost sympathize,” Crowley oozes, regaining a bit of his equilibrium.

“If all that’s true then how am I alive right now?” Dean demands. Self-important little twatweasel.

“You still don’t get it, do you? I will never understand how two creatures as dense as you and your brother were chosen to be the Vessels.” Crowley steps closer, so he can speak right into Dean’s face. “Cain couldn’t handle the power of the Mark as a human either, and tried to off himself, but the Mark wouldn’t have it. You’ve gotten yourself into a similar situation, and now the same thing has happened to you as it did to him.”

Crowley enunciates clearly. “You are a demon, Dean.”

 

 

Crowley’s smarmy British voice echoes through Dean’s head, accompanied by the memory of Cain, stoic in his lonely house.

_You and I are very much alike._

Well, shit. Apparently that’s all too true now.

_You have to know with the Mark comes a great burden. Some would call it a great cost._

Fuck. Guess he should’ve listened to those warnings Cain had alluded to after all. At the time he hadn’t cared about anything except gaining the ability to kill Abbadon, to clean up at least one of his messes, since he couldn’t fix things with Sam. Everything else had paled in importance.

And now he’s a demon.

He’s a demon, and Crowley—in addition to his customary utter dickishness—wants to know how he _feels_. Crowley’s still watching him, waiting, and appearing genuinely interested in the answer.

It’s more than a little unsettling.

The unease distracts him for a moment, but Dean becomes aware that he does feel different, like there’s something not quite right. Something’s…off.

That could be a result of having been stabbed in the chest with an angel blade of course, but somehow Dean doesn’t think that’s it.

He’s died before after all, and coming back has never felt like this.

Because Dean is the kind of guy who has personal experience with resurrection. Multiple times over.

Way to have something in common with Jesus, right?

He’d snort at the unbelievable irony of that statement if he weren’t so concerned with figuring out why this time is different. Physically, he feels great. He hasn’t felt this rested and ready and almost… renewed, since Cas put him back together after the Pit. Other than that, he feels…

That’s all he feels. The rest is strangely detached, as if he’s interacting with the world as per usual and knows what to think and how to feel, but can’t be bothered. The unbearable weight of failure, guilt, self-loathing, all the crap he’s so accustomed to carrying around is curiously absent. Even more curious, he’s not particularly concerned about it. The only thing he’s concerned about is which foot to balance his weight on when he lunges and finally obliterates Crowley in about two minutes. Hopefully he won’t get any blood on his favorite pair of boots, that particular bodily fluid is a bitch to get out of leather. Then he thinks maybe he’d like a drink, and a burger.

A previously silent corner of Dean’s brain comes to violent life and is completely freaking out, in a way he’s never allowed himself because it’s dangerous to lose focus like that. The rest is still poised and calm, which only makes the panicky part even more annoying.

Clearly, he has a lot of things to think about.

But Crowley doesn’t seem to be aware that Dean really wants to be left alone right now. Inconsiderate prick. “I could feel it, you know. I can always feel when a new demon is created, when a soul finally breaks and twists itself into something new. It always gives me a little thrill. But I have to tell you,” Crowley continues, the lascivious tone of voice grating on Dean, “when I felt your soul changing? Better than sex.”

Dean’s considering holding off on the killing just so he can punch this asshole again on principle.

“Well that was just gross, now will you excuse me so I can go take a rape shower?”

“You still don’t see the possibilities, do you Dean?” Crowley insists. “You’ve always been so prejudiced against our kind, and for what? Mommy was taken too young and Daddy couldn’t handle it? Boo hoo.” Dean can’t decide whether that comment bothers him enough to stab Crowley in the neck.

“But now you have the chance to see what it’s like from the other side,” he’s still saying. “You can let go of all those messy feelings you spend so much time worrying about and finally live a little. The world is yours, do whatever you want with it,” Crowley urges. “The only person who has the power to kill you is you, and with the Mark suicide is impossible. _Nothing can stop you_.”

Crowley’s starting to look a little like he drank the Kool-Aid at a cult meeting. That makes Dean wonder if the internet is telling the truth for once and the dark side really does have cookies, because that would be pretty sweet, then he considers Crowley’s words.

The idea of being universally indestructible is completely foreign, but Dean’s already sinking into it easily. He also thinks it just might be true, because he’s feeling pretty invincible at the moment.

Mostly though, Dean’s one hundred percent done with this snarky motherfucker and his smug face, and wants Crowley to get out so he can assess the situation without an audience. They can talk later if they really have to.

“So if that’s true,” he says slowly, “then I don’t even need the Blade to kill you, do I? I could beat you to death with my bare hands, and there’s nothing you could do to stop me. Because,” he looms over Crowley, enjoying the upper hand for once, “I’m more powerful than you now, aren’t I?”

“Don’t get any big ideas,” Crowley bites, but he can’t hide the tension in his body or the involuntary step back he takes. “You don’t even know how to use what you’ve got, do you? You need a sponsor. I’m here to show you how to embrace the power, instead of crying to Moose about it like you always do.”

“You talk too much,” Dean says, and strikes. A half-second before the Blade would have turned Crowley into nothing more than a smoking suit he disappears and reappears behind Dean, on the other side of the bed.

“Fine,” he grits out, plainly offended. “Have it your way. But you’ll come crawling back asking for help soon enough. Oh, and by the way,” Crowley is poised to blink out again, “tell Moose to shut up, would you? I find the sound of his voice irritating, I can’t think with him summoning me constantly.” Then he’s gone.

Dean slowly lowers his arm. He looks at the Blade, then drops it on the bed.

At least he didn’t get any blood on his shoes _. Holyshitholyshit._

Dean sits down on the edge of the bed and stares unseeingly at the dust bunny peeking out from underneath his dresser, trying to process what he’s learned.

So. He’s a demon. And he is simultaneously terrified in an abstract fashion and more importantly, trying to remember if the Dr. Sexy season finale is this week or next week.

Putting aside the mess of feelings/not-feelings for the moment, Dean takes stock of his change in status, curious. What does he know about demons? Let’s see: they can teleport; they can move things with their minds or however they do that telekinetic crap, always closing doors and slamming him and Sam up against walls with a mere wave; they can possess any human vessel without permission, though Dean doesn’t think that will be an issue for him because the idea of leaving his body for someone else’s gives him the creeps; they have super strength, though they’re not quite as strong as angels; and they’re immortal. Interesting list of personal traits he can now claim. Some of those will probably prove pretty useful, like teleporting; no more driving for hours to get to that little out-of-the-way diner in Bumfuck, Wyoming with the truly orgasmic cherry pie. Bonus.

But, he realizes, he’s not a normal demon now is he? Other demons come into being as the products of corrupted human souls, but that’s not what happened to him. He got it from the Mark, according to Crowley, which means he’s a Cain-level demon.

More like a Knight of Hell.

_Fuck my fucking life_.

He thinks back to meeting Cain. Dean had stabbed him with Ruby’s knife, but he didn’t even flinch, just pulled it out and handed it back pretty as you please. Cain hadn’t started out as a corrupted soul either; he’d received the Mark from Lucifer himself. So what does that mean for Dean’s soul? Does he still have one? Did it automatically warp and go dark or is it just sort of hiding, dormant, while the Mark and its traits predominate?

Dean closes his eyes and tries to concentrate once more on how he feels. His focus turns inward. Normally he doesn’t have to wonder how he feels, he knows instinctively whether or not he chooses to deal with it. Usually not, because generally he feels like shit in one form or another. Now though, that clinical feeling pervades, muting his normal reactions and leaving only freeing darkness and superficial needs.

Underneath the darkness however, he can still feel pockets of—light, he guesses, and that’s where his true feelings—or whatever—lie. That’s where the old Dean is still upset about not finally killing Crowley when he had the chance; where he’s turned utterly upside down and inside out by these incredible revelations; where the constant, gnawing worry about Sam rears its familiar ugly head. The concern about Cas, about how they’re going to handle this, how either of them will react to him and the underlying fear of rejection are all jumbled up in the light. There’s also gratitude at being alive, regardless of the tangle he’s found himself in, and oddly enough, the desperate need for a hug.

Wow. He never realized what an emo bitch that Dean was. Good riddance.

Dropping his head into his hands, Dean rubs at his eye sockets and lets out a frustrated groan. Restless, he gets up and wanders over to the mirror. He’s surprised to see that he looks essentially the same, which almost doesn’t seem possible given the total reversal going on in his head.

Squinting closer to the glass he turns his face this way and that, noticing that all the cuts and bruises from his knock-down drag-out fight with Metatron are gone. _Must be one of those perks of being a demon_ , he thinks, remembering the sinister thrill he’d felt with every blow he’d landed on that fuckface. It was so good it brings to mind stabbing Abbadon, which was honestly the best he’s felt in a really long time. He blinks again absently, focused on how he’d reveled in her murder, and when he looks back at himself his eyes are black.

_Holy fuck_.

He pulls slightly away from the mirror but can’t stop staring at his reflection. It’s equally repellent and mesmerizing. It brings to mind the nightmares he’d had in the months before going to Hell. The light inside him—his soul?—starts freaking the fuck out again, but it’s vague, like a song playing in the back of his mind. Now when he looks, his eyes are their normal, mundane green.

Another demon trait. Add that one to the list.

Soul speaking up for the moment, Dean’s mind fills with all his fears. This, all of this, is freaking weird, not to mention creepy as hell, and it’s overwhelming. The terrifying part is that terror is not the dominant feeling trying to take over and sweep him away, rather it’s the exact opposite: unconcern. Carefree, negligent power, reined in only by himself for as long as he can stay himself. _Which is probably not very long._ It’s kind of a fucking miracle he can still feel like his normal self at all, but maybe it has to do with that whole Dean-is-the-vessel-of-Heaven-because-he-has-an-especially-bright-and-strong-soul thing. He thinks Cas maybe mentioned it, back during the Apocalypse, which seems way preferable to the situation he’s in now.

And what exactly does it say about his life that he _misses_ Armageddon?

_Too much_. This is too much to think about all at once, particularly when he can’t even predict which side of him will be in control at any given moment, and he doesn’t know what to do but then he remembers— _Sam_. He needs to get to Sam, to make sure he’s okay. Right this instant, before he slides unknowingly back into the abyss of indifference. If anyone can find a way to help him, it’s his geek brother. He needs Sam.

 

 

Sam’s head shoots up. He cuts off in midsentence from his sixth—eighth? Twelfth?—time running through the incantation. It feels like hours but could have been only minutes since he began, he has no idea how long he’s been down here. All he knows is that Dean is dead and that shithead Crowley isn’t picking up, so Sam will keep at it until he gets an answer because he will not be denied. Not today.

The room is smoky and dim from the burning ingredients in the bowl, and there’s a pile of used matches on the floor beside him. His throat is dry and voice hoarse from endless chanting and from the force of holding reality at bay. He feels like he should probably shift position to restore the blood flow to his legs, but really he doesn’t care about the numbness; at least it’s an improvement over the shooting pains of discomfort that had stopped running through his thighs and hips earlier. The last however long has mostly been a blur, running on autopilot and not allowing himself to think too much, but he seems to have a vague recollection of praying to Cas and letting him know what happened in between chanting.

“Sam!”

He thinks he must be hallucinating when he hears Dean’s voice because Crowley hasn’t even shown up yet, but the voice cracks and it’s getting louder. Now he can hear footsteps coming his way, hurrying through all the rooms and no, that’s impossible, but it sounds like Dean, and he has to go find out if this is real or if he’s just fooling himself.

Sam jumps up but stumbles onto his hands and knees— _numb from the waist down, remember?_ —so he crawls forward a few paces, shaking out his feet and awkwardly rising until he can stand. He keeps moving forward, breaking into a full-tilt run at the sound of Dean’s voice, banging through the false door and racing up toward the library where the hallways intersect.

He makes it through into the main rooms and stops abruptly enough that he almost falls over on his face, because Dean is there. He’s standing there, alive and breathing, and looking at Sam with so much fear and worry in his eyes, but it's odd, almost like it's forced? He doesn’t bother with the part of his mind that’s telling him something is off about this whole situation, because his dead brother is not dead, and Sam has his family back. Everything else is just details.

“Dean,” he breathes out shakily, and all at once he can move again. He crosses the room in a few swift strides and wraps his brother up in a tight bear hug.

There’s a weird moment where Dean hesitates after Sam grabs him, which is unnatural because while Dean has never felt the need to be overly affectionate he’s certainly never denied Sam either, particularly in times of crisis, but then Dean crushes his arms around Sam’s shoulders and he shakes off the feeling of _wrong_.

After squeezing each other close for a long minute, Sam finally makes himself let go and holds Dean at arm’s length, hands on his shoulders for reassurance that this is real as he surveys his brother from head to toe.

Dean seems oddly tense rather than tremendously relieved, like Sam is. He’s also having trouble maintaining eye contact; he keeps catching Sam’s gaze, but his eyes flit away after a few moments. Sam frowns. This reminds him uncomfortably of the time he caught Dean and Rhonda Hurley sneaking out from underneath the bleachers in high school, almost like he’s waiting to be judged.

But that doesn’t make sense. How could he be judged for being alive? It’s not like Dean made a deal to bring himself back. If anything he should be yelling at Sam for even trying to summon Crowley. Who never showed, by the way, and he hasn’t seen any sign of Cas thus far, so how is Dean even standing here in front of him?

“Dean?”

His brother’s eyes jerk up from his intense study of his shoes to meet Sam’s concerned look. Dean opens his mouth, and an indefinable parade of emotions makes its way across his face. He’s not making any sound though, and Sam feels a prickle of foreboding at the base of his spine. Whatever Dean is having trouble telling him it’s not going to be good. Dean’s face changes, looking faintly pleading, and Sam thinks _scratch that_ —it’s going to be frigging awful. But whatever it is, he has to know.

“What happened?”

 

 

Dean can hear the frantic edge to his own voice, calling out for Sam as he rushes through the bunker, checking every room along the way. Frantic, because he’s having to push himself just to care enough to go looking for Sam instead of—of—he doesn’t know what he’d do instead, just that Regular Dean is in control right now and he’s not going to give in to Demon Dean without a fight.

He finally finds his brother and when he does, Sam is overjoyed. He wraps his arms around Dean unreservedly, and why shouldn’t he? He doesn’t know what Dean’s become, how far he’s sunk this time. All he sees is his brother. For a moment Dean holds back, Sam’s physical presence making him rethink his mad dash, but damn it he’s glad to see him and he can’t hold back for long. He lets himself be comforted for a moment, but when Sam steps back to look him over Dean feels like Sam can see right through him. A thousand apologies are on the tip of his tongue; apologies for his hubris, for his unwillingness to listen, for the stubbornness that got him into this situation. He also wants to explain, to tell Sam he’s still the same Dean and not to worry, but he can’t. Because that’s not true, and Sam’s not stupid. He’ll be able to tell.

Sam says his name worriedly.

_Can he tell?_

“What happened?” Sam asks, looking confused, and almost like he’s afraid to know the answer.

Dean wants to laugh bitterly. Sam should be afraid.

“Sammy…” he gives a small shake of his head and leads them both over to one of the library tables. He sits across from Sam, putting more space between them than it’s clear his brother would like, but he can't help but think he should give them both some distance. Just in case.

But how to begin? If he just comes right out with it, goes for bluntness he’s not sure Sam will believe him. Then again, he doesn’t want to drag this out too long; partly because he doesn’t even want to say it out loud once, and partly because if he doesn’t hurry up and explain Sam will get pissy. Or dean will decide explanations are for weaklings and blow him off entirely. Too late, it occurs to Dean that he could have waited before tearing off in search of his brother and fabricated a less horrifying story about his return from the dead, because what’s the point of telling the truth? It’s not like Sam can fix this anyway, though Dean has no doubt he’ll try. That would be shitty though, and considering the fact that he’s trying his damnedest to retain what humanity he has left, Dean doesn’t think it’s a real smart idea to go around pulling dick moves right and left. It smacks a little too much of giving in.

Sam has that look that he gets, the one that says if Dean doesn’t start talking he’s going to drag it out of him by force. _As if._  Dean blows out a breath. Better start with some of the basics, explain a little backstory. Sammy likes facts.

“Okay,” he begins, rolling his right shirt sleeve up to his elbow. “I know you’ve been wondering about this lately,” he says, gesturing to the raised skin of the Mark embedded in his forearm like a brand. The lines are puffy and red, standing out starkly from the rest of Dean’s skin.

“Yeah,” Sam cuts in, “you’ve been acting weirder than normal lately because of it. Like it’s making you darker, somehow.”

This time Dean does give a bitter laugh. “You have no idea,” he mutters, then continues so Sam can hear him. “Well it was, in a way. Since we got the Blade from Crowley, the only time I’ve really felt good is when I killed Abbadon, and that Men of Letters psycho Cuthbert Sinclair.” He’s staring at the Mark, tracing its raised lines rather than looking Sam in the eye while he confesses to getting high on murder. Its power is fascinating. “The longer I went without killing anything, the worse it got. I felt sick, started coughing up blood. It was like the worst possible withdrawal you could have, you know? And Crowley told me that it was a side effect of the Mark, that if I didn’t keep killing things then it would kill me. Apparently the Mark is too powerful for a human to contain.” He snorts derisively and rolls his eyes. “Lotta useful info Cain kept to himself, come to find out.”

“Okay,” Sam says slowly, plainly taken aback by how badly the Mark had been affecting Dean but powering through it with logic, “but if that’s true then why are you still here? It wasn’t the Mark that killed you, it was Metatron.”

“Some of that useful info Cain didn’t bother to mention. So the Mark can’t be contained, but it also can’t be killed. Or won’t let its vessel be killed, I guess. I mean look at Cain, dude’s like a billion years old and still kicking.”

“So how is that possible then? Dean?” Sam’s dreading the answer.

Hmm, so many possible ways to break what will no doubt be devastating news to the ridiculous giant in front of him.

Fuck it. All this gooey emoting is a pain in the ass.

He stares hard at Sam for a minute, then closes his eyes and concentrates on the power he’s been trying to ignore, the immutable force running through his veins. He opens his eyes and looks at the guy again, wondering if he’s learned how to do this.

Sam lets out a huge gasp and sits back in his chair as if he’d been shoved, muttering a heartfelt, “ _Fuck_.”

Apparently that’s a yes on the demon eyes trick. Sweet. Who ever said Dean Winchester isn’t a fast learner?

Dean blinks again to change back but Sam doesn’t relax much. “Seems the only way to be strong enough to carry the Mark is to become a demon.”

“Fuck,” Sam says again.

“You’re telling me,” Dean agrees ironically, absently scratching at his chest. This library is boring as shit. Much like the conversation.

“No, but seriously Dean, what the actual fuck?” Looks like Dean was right about Sam having trouble believing. Does Emo Dean know his brother or what?

He just shrugs. Sam’s internal struggle is evident on his face, so he waits impatiently, attention wandering. Processing is a bitch. If you’re into that sort of thing, that is. Seems like a major waste of time to him.

“How did this happen? I mean, this is you right, you’re not being possessed or anything? How do you feel? And if Cain didn’t bother to tell you any of this—what an unbelievable prick, by the way—how do you know?” Boy, when Sam gets his wits back he comes around with a vengeance.

“Yep, this is me,” he confirms. “No possession necessary. The feeling part…meh. As for my source, I found out from Crowley.” Goddamn but this is monotonous. He can’t think of a better idea than getting up and leaving, preferably finding some food and strong booze. And a warm body or two.

The only thing happening here is inane yammering, and his mind wanders to how he easy it would be to take Sam by surprise, pop out and show up right behind him, get him in a chokehold and finally do something about that truly hideous hair. Sam's a hunter so he'd probably put up a pretty good fight, make it entertaining. Or he could totally screw with this guy, act like he gives a shit and watch him ugly cry when he finds out Dean doesn’t give a rat’s ass.

Yes, that’s a much better plan.

“Crowley?” Sam asks incredulously. “But he never showed, I was waiting—”

“You were what?” Dean sits up, attention caught. He tries to appear shocked and disappointed. “You called Crowley?”

“Of course I did. Don’t give me that look Dean, I wasn’t planning on making a deal. I just wanted him to fix what he’d done, because all this was his fault in the first place,” Sam defends.

“Oh and if you weren’t planning on making a deal, then what was your genius plan to get him to cooperate?” Dean inquires sarcastically. Fucking Sam. Like they don’t have enough problems right now, he has to go and dig up an oldie but goodie.

“I didn’t even get that far Dean, I just—”

“You just what?”

“I had to do _something_ ,” Sam practically explodes. “You were dead! Did you expect me to just accept that and move on, do nothing?”

“Based on the last six months? Yeah, pretty much. Oh, also you said you wouldn’t save me if you had the choice, remember? Forgive me for not thinking you would overexert yourself.” Oh that's good, play the injured party and put Sam on the defensive. That oughta rile him right up. Then at least Dean will have something to do.

“Well I lied!” Sam yells. “I told you I lied, and I meant it. I was pissed off Dean, and I had a right to be I might add, but you’re still my brother.” Sam crosses his arms in a huff.

Dean’s shoulders slump and he looks down at his hands. “Even now?” he asks quietly. _Don't laugh._

Sam lets his arms down. “Even now,” he agrees. They’re both quiet for a moment. “So what do we do now?”

“I don’t know if there’s anything we can do, Sammy.” Like he cares. What’s done is done, move on already, Jesus.

A determined gleam has replaced the hopelessness in his brother’s eye. “Well that’s bullshit, because there’s always something. So let’s go through what we already know first and start eliminating, that way we’ll have somewhere to start.”

Faint-voiced Regular Dean doesn’t have much hope they’ll be able to find anything at all, but it warms him to know he has his brother’s unconditional acceptance and support.

Currently Demon Dean is wondering if Sam remembered to buy any more beer before they commenced Operation: Kill MetaDouche and if there’s a new issue of Busty Asian Beauties out yet.

Just as he’s opening his mouth to inform Sam exorcism won’t do a damn thing, there’s a _whoosh_ and a small tornado gusts up out of nowhere. Finally, some action in this mausoleum.

It seems to originate between the bookshelves in the corner, churning the air and sending papers flying in every direction. The shelves rattle, a few books tumbling down to the floor while the samurai sword on the wall judders dangerously. Both Winchesters jump to their feet, braced against the threat. Sam whips out a gun and Dean waits barehanded, more anticipatory than anything. If he didn’t know any better he’d wonder if Charlie and Dorothy hopped a tornado out of Oz and back to the bunker, but there’s no familiar shock of red hair to be seen.

Instead when the air clears and everything settles, the eye of the storm turns out to be a billowing trench coat with wild hair and strained, fierce eyes.

Dean has no time to wonder how Cas managed to zap himself directly here without any wings, he’s too busy considering the ramifications of the angel’s presence while the light inside him thrills strongly to life, bright and overwarm.

Cas’s eyes go to the pair at the small library table instantly, and he remains unmoving as he appraises the both of them. Dean is tense, watching Cas processing every detail of the picture before him no doubt down to the mustard stain Dean’s never been able to get out of the collar of this shirt. Some unfathomable mixture of emotions rolls palpably off the angel, strong enough that the room is suddenly crackling with static electricity.

_He’s here. Cas is here._

Dean rushes back to himself, shoving down the insidious asshole that’s been dominating his thoughts, and trying not to fidget with shame. It feels like an hour, waiting for Cas to act, but Dean remains seated. He’s not sure if it’s because he’s well-trained or if it’s because he’s scared to make the first move.

Drifting into unwelcome thoughts of how now, finally Cas will be forced to turn his back on him, Dean starts a bit when Cas marches forward. Ground-eating strides bring him quickly across the room, and this is it, this is where Cas will reach out a palm and lay it to Dean’s forehead, lighting up the room and putting all of them out of their misery once and for all. It’s no more than he deserves, after the thoughts he’d had about Sammy. Cas’s brows are lowered, fists clenched; the only sign of the previous turmoil is in his tired eyes.

Dean closes his own as Cas reaches him, taking this last minute to wish for impossible things, but then it’s too late and Cas’s hands are on him…pulling…

Not smiting.

Cas tugs Dean to his feet and wraps his arms around him without hesitation.

Demon Dean recoils sharply from the proximity to an angel, and Regular Dean kicks him away so he can just have this for a minute. The unbelievable acceptance is reminiscent of Sam’s reaction just a little while ago, and Dean’s head spins with relief. He hugs back, hard, curling his fingers into Cas’s stupid, wonderful coat.  _Safe._ Cas is warm and Dean sinks into the embrace, molding around Cas’s torso and lowering his face into the other man’s shoulder. Castiel is an angel, his polar opposite now, but if Cas isn’t going to reject him then maybe there’s a sliver of hope after all.

He takes a shuddering breath and closes his eyes, inhaling the familiar scent clouding his senses and clenching just a bit more firmly. He needs to be closer. The tight bands of anxiety that he didn’t even realize were compressing his chest for the last hour loosen and he inhales fully for the first time in days. Cas has turned his face into Dean’s neck, eyelashes tickling his skin and breaths huffing against his collar. The angel’s stubble rasps against his ear and it sends a pleasant prickle down his chest.

Minutes, hours, lifetimes later Dean feels like he can finally ease up a bit, and the fierce hug gentles to an affectionate embrace. He was wrong before, about Abbadon; this right here is the best he’s felt in probably forever. The scrape of a chair is loud in the laden silence, followed by the clearing of a throat, and Dean looks around to see Sam’s eyes trained on the table, clearly giving them a moment of privacy as well as he can under the circumstances. Slowly he straightens and retrieves his hand from where it had been unconsciously making slow, soothing passes up and down Cas’s back. His other hand trails reluctantly away from its grip on Cas’s neck. He moves back a step, just enough that their feet are no longer woven together, knees no longer brushing. His chest feels cold with no angel to warm it. Only now, looking into Cas’s concerned face, does Dean realize neither of them has said a word.

It hits Dean that he didn’t just hug a friend because he’s glad to be alive, he’d seized onto an anchor, feeling like he’d come home. Even more strange, Cas had done the same. It’s something to think about, probably the only revelation thus far tonight that hasn’t made Dean want to run as far away as he can with nothing but a bottle for company.

What utterly craptastic timing they have.

 

 

Dean is acting strangely.

Or perhaps, not so strangely, given the revelations of the evening. What can one expect from a demon, after all, but chaos and perversity?

Cas is exhausted. His grace is weakening by the day, and he doesn’t know how much longer he has to find an answer before he just…burns out. It’s incredibly frustrating; more than that, it cuts deeply into his core, knowing that not only is he helpless to save himself, but he’s helpless to save Dean. Dean, whose eyes keep flickering between familiar emerald warmth, filled with earnestness and determination and _good_ , and hard calculating coldness, endlessly assessing like a shark on the hunt. It’s tearing him into pieces to see.

The real Dean had shown through when Cas arrived, desperate for approval and clutching onto him like a lifeline. That’s the Dean Cas has known for years, the one he l—cares for deeply.

The one with ice chips in his eyes who stares at Sam like he’s waiting for the opportune moment to peel his skin off is severely disturbing to Cas’s peace of mind. That’s not his Dean.

Except it appears that, at least for right now, it is.

Cas vows to smite Crowley into a smoking pile of ash for this if it’s the last thing he ever does, which may very well be.

He sees the poorly-concealed worry on Sam’s face as they move back to their seats at the table, keeping up the pretense of brainstorming solutions with Cas’s added input. Sam knows that Dean’s putting on a brave front when he can, but still slipping further away from them with every passing moment. There’s no guarantee that anything can save Dean, or that he’ll even still want to be saved when the time comes. That’s the thing about evil; it doesn’t know it’s evil.

Castiel and the youngest Winchester have become immeasurably closer over the past year, and he feels Sam’s pain acutely. Of course, it mirrors his own. He can’t help but think this is partially his fault, for allowing himself to be so distracted by taking Heaven back from Metatron and not protesting while he watched Dean pull away from the two of them, curling further inside himself and going to extremes to assuage his own guilt. Dean was right; when will he ever learn? It seems they are all doomed to repeat the same mistakes, caught in an endless loop of regret, so close to reaching out for what’s right in front of them and never able to touch. Such are the lives of those chosen to save others.

No more.

This time Castiel will step back and let the other angels restore order to Heaven with no help from him. It’s time to let someone else take charge and become the leader they’ve sorely been lacking for millennia; Cas has tried his best, more than once, to no avail. This time, he’s going to stay and help where he’s most needed, because he can make a difference in the time that he has left. Because it’s where he wants to be.

He’s going to stay with Dean.

 

 

“So basically, we can’t do shit because the demon is Dean and it’s the only thing keeping him alive while he bears the Mark of Cain,” Sam summarizes. Cas’s brow is furrowed, either because he’s troubled or he’s concentrating, Sam’s not sure. Most likely both.

Which is not surprising of course, because even after all the tight situations they’ve made it out of thus far, however unlikely, this is hands down the worst thing to ever happen in their shitty, shitty lives. And that’s a pretty high bar.

Sam needs a drink. He needs a stiff drink in a Big Gulp cup, because it’s all he can do right now to just sit here and discuss this like it’s any other case they’ve found in the newspaper. He doesn’t have much of a choice though, because if he lets go of that strand of hard-won professionalism he’s going to lose it. This is his _brother_. This is _Dean_ , not some random stranger. This is the person who raised Sam, who’s taken care of him his whole life, his cornerstone.

But the person looking back at him through his brother’s eyes right now is not his brother and it’s eating him alive. He can’t afford to give in to the grief and confusion because they need to make a plan, gather what scraps of information are available and find some way to—do something. Some of his thoughts must have leaked out onto his face because Dean sits forward just the slightest bit, eyes narrowed, and Sam sucks in a breath as quietly as he can. The look Dean’s giving him right now is the same look he’s gotten from every monster they’ve ever hunted: like he’s the prey.

Sam takes a few controlled breaths, in and out, trying to contain the nervous jitters because in all their years of dealing with the freaky and terrifying, he’s only ever been scared for his brother.

Now he’s scared of his brother.

He sees the wariness in Castiel’s movements as well, as if they’re both aware there’s only a very thin thread holding Dean here with them at all, and they need to be extra careful not to break it, lest he turn on them or give up completely on the part of himself that’s trying to fight through. Because that part is there, however feeble, and it’s most evident when Dean is touching Cas or when they’re in each other’s space, just like they always have been. Maybe it’s because Cas is an angel and that does something to counteract the demon, Sam doesn’t know, and he doesn’t care. He’s just glad there’s even a glimpse of Dean showing through, although not so much right now.

Dean’s eyes are wandering from his sprawled position in the chair, absently rubbing his collarbone and clearly done with this conversation, so Sam switches focus to Cas for a moment, all the while watching Dean out of the corner of his eye. “I meant to ask you Cas, if you guys don’t have wings anymore how did you get here? Weren’t you in Heaven, with Gadreel?”

“I was,” he confirms, “but Metatron knew we would be coming for him and he set a trap to catch us. Gadreel…” he pauses for a moment, regret etched on his stern features. “He couldn’t face the idea of imprisonment any longer, and he sacrificed himself to get me out. I was able to trick Metatron into revealing his true intentions to the other angels, and he is currently locked up while they sort out what to do.”

Cas shifts innocuously in his chair, moving closer while he speaks, and his arm brushes Dean’s. He never looks at Dean directly, but it’s enough to have Dean’s shoulders relaxing, attention back on the angel. Well played, Cas.

“As for how I got here,” he continues, “I was—informed, that Dean had been killed, and then I heard your prayer, Sam. So I had the angels move the portal to Heaven and was able to come straight here.” Cas finally glances at Dean, fingers draping casually over the arm of his chair. Dean’s gaze is fixed on his face, leaning slightly sideways toward him, and Sam breathes a silent _thank you_ when Dean allows his fingers to rest similarly on the arm of his chair, touching Cas’s.

“Good thinking. Not sure I’m sad about Gadreel, but at least he helped you in the end I guess,” Sam says grudgingly. No matter how _misunderstood_ that guy felt, Sam will never be able to forgive him for Kevin.

Dean’s regard swerves back to him and it makes Sam uncomfortable. Now might be an opportune time to excuse himself briefly. “So hey uh, I think we have a few old books of Bobby’s around here somewhere that might help, I’m gonna go see if I can find them okay?”

Cas gives a little grunt of assent, looking at Sam questioningly. Sam stands and widens his eyes at Cas, giving a bare nod to where Dean has resumed staring at the side of the angel’s face. The silent inquiry eases, and Cas turns his attention to Dean as Sam hurries out of the room.

He wonders if Cas knows where he’s going as he makes his way downstairs, feeling equal measures of guilt and urgency. After the panic room Sam never wanted to have to lock up his brother again, but a part of him (that sounds suspiciously like his dad) is loudly insisting that he should check the validity of the restraints and sigils in the dungeon, just in case.

Just in case of what, he’s trying really hard not to imagine.

Whatever they wind up doing, it has to be _now_ , because Dean won’t hold out much longer. Soon he’ll turn on them, or he’ll just leave, and there is nothing they can do to stop him. They’ll try of course, hence the sweep of the dungeon, but Sam doesn’t have much hope. He really wants to talk to Cas about this away from Dean’s unsettling presence, but he’s certain that leaving Dean alone is about the worst idea ever right now.

Hurrying back upstairs, apprehension threatens to take over when Sam doesn’t see anyone at the library table anymore, but he puts a firm lid on it and breathes a sigh of relief when he turns and Cas is there.

“Where’s Dean?” he asks worriedly, eyes scanning the rows of shelves.

“He’s in the kitchen, it seems he’s hungry,” Cas replies. “I’ve only left him alone for a minute, but I wanted to speak with you.”

“Yeah, me too,” Sam huffs out. “What are your thoughts on all this?” he asks, gesturing vaguely in the direction of the kitchen.

“I’m worried, Sam,” Cas says bluntly. “I’m worried Dean is already out of reach, and there’s nothing we can do to contain him. I don’t know what he’ll do on his own, but none of our standard practices will work on him. He’s not a normal demon.” Cas looks at him like he wishes he didn’t have to say what he’s about to say. _Fuck_. “He’s more powerful than Abbadon.”

All the air is punched from Sam’s body with those words, and for the first time tonight instead of panicking or trying to focus on how to move ahead, all Sam wants to do is curl up in a ball and cry.

He feels a hand on his shoulder, and blindly reaches out to grasp Cas’s shoulder in return. He resists letting Cas comfort him with a hug, because his vision is already blurry and he doesn’t trust himself not to break down, so he just squeezes back and pats Cas a few times before letting go.

Sam shakes his head and blinks to clear his vision. “So you can’t work your angel mojo on him at all?”

“No, I can’t,” Cas replies solemnly. “My grace is…not what it should be. I will do what I can, but I don’t know how long I’ll be able to help, or how much.”

“We can’t give up on him though,” Sam says hoarsely. His gaze sharpens on Cas’s face when the angel just looks at him sorrowfully and doesn’t say anything. “We’re not going to give up on him, Cas,” Sam says louder.

Cas heaves a sigh. “No Sam, we won’t give up on him.” He turns and heads in the direction Dean had gone, and Sam’s gratitude that he has at least one person in this with him wavers when he hears a muttered, “Much good may it do him.”

Stifling the urge to cry once more, Sam steadies himself and stands up straight. Better go find those books and get started.

 

 

Chilly air from the refrigerator wafts through the open door, cooling Dean’s front while he considers which is the better crappy option: leftover Chinese or a ham sandwich? Deciding a sandwich is too much work, he grabs the containers of kung pao chicken and chow mein noodles and a fork so he can eat them directly from the box. He’s not really hungry, per se; physically he doesn’t have the same biological needs to stay alive that he used to be such a slave to, he just feels like it. Turning for the high cabinet opposite the fridge, he reaches for the whiskey and a tumbler while he listens to angelic footsteps approaching. He’s a little surprised they bothered to leave him blessedly alone for five friggin’ minutes, but the pretty boy and the shaggy giant probably needed to snivel on each other’s shoulders at the terrible tragedy that had befallen them. Dean snorts. Pussies.

The footsteps cross the threshold and his skin crackles with electricity, like he’s both sides of a magnet and one side of him is intrinsically repelled by the so-called holy being behind him, and the other side is irresistibly pulled to him. At least the dichotomy is interesting, considering how insufferably angst-ridden these two are.

“Dean.”

He turns leisurely, tipping back his tumbler and swallowing with a pleased hum. That’s good stuff. “What’s up angel-face?” he smirks.

No laugh. This dude needs to get that giant stick out of his ass. “How are you feeling?” Castiel asks, tilting his head as if he truly cares. Schmuck.

“I am friggin’ peachy,” he responds amiably, baring all his teeth in a facsimile of a smile. “How are you?”

“Troubled,” Cas says succinctly. “I want nothing more than to help you right now, but I’m not sure if that’s even possible. Sam too is concerned, but we are both committed to finding a solution. I want you to know that no matter what—”

“You sure do talk a lot,” Dean interrupts carelessly. “You ever wonder what else you could get up to with that pretty mouth, angel-face?” He zeroes in on the plush mouth in question, watching it firm before opening again, waiting for the inevitable shock and dismay.

“No matter what happens,” Castiel perseveres, seriously with this guy, “Sam has vowed not to give up on you,” like he cares, but Feathers is coming closer and reaching out for him, “and neither will I, Dean.”

Cas’s hand slides up Dean’s bare forearm, fingers grasping reassuringly, and the magnet swivels and Dean is pressing forward into Cas’s space, just like before. His hands slip up and around, clasping the back of Cas’s shoulders in a loose embrace, and hangs his head forward to stare intently at the open collar of his shirt.

Dean takes a deep breath, chest rising and falling. “I’m sorry Cas,” he whispers. “I didn’t mean to be such an ass to you.”

“It’s okay, Dean,” Cas assures him, thumbs massaging his clavicles in small circles. “I know it wasn’t you. Not the real you, anyway.”

“But it is me now, isn’t it?” Dean asks, distressed. “I slipped into it without even realizing, I can’t control it. I don’t even know how I’m talking to you right now.”

“Nor do I, but I meant what I said. Sam and I will do whatever is necessary to restore you.”

Finally Dean meets Cas’s eyes. _They’re so blue_. “But even if you can it’s going to take time, and who knows what kind of shit I’ll do in the meantime? Cas, if you knew what kinds of thoughts I was having about you, about _Sam_ …god Cas, it was fucking awful.”

“We’re not going anywhere,” Cas insists. “Sam and I are both well-versed in taking care of ourselves.”

“Yeah but it’s out of control, and you both said it, there’s nothing you can do to stop me. I’m dangerous, I can’t ask you guys to hang around for that.” His grip on the trench coated shoulders tightens apprehensively.

“Dean,” Cas commands. He splays one hand over the side of Dean’s neck and jaw to ensure he’s hearing the angel’s words. Clearly, he enunciates, “I will not leave you.”

“Cas,” he rasps weakly, pleading, and Cas’s thumb softly caresses his cheekbone. His eyes are huge azure pools of steadfast affection.

Dean breaks and surges forward to catch Cas’s head in his hands, holding it in place for his mouth. He lurches against Cas clumsily, teeth clinking unpleasantly, desperate to be closer. “I’m sorry,” he gasps out against Cas’s mouth. “I shouldn’t be,” he says between frantic kisses, “doing this now, but I just—I have to—”

Cas just strokes his hand from Dean’s neck up into his hair, and wraps his other hand around Dean’s ribcage, steadying them both while he tries to keep up with the darting movements of Dean’s mouth. “It’s okay, Dean,” he gets out between kisses.

His head follows Dean’s, angling and pressing, one frenzied kiss after another. It’s as if, now the dam’s been broken, the feelings they had neither the opportunity nor the courage for during the last six years are all flooding out at once, and they’re trying to make up for lost time in the space of mere minutes.

Every press of Cas’s soft mouth makes Dean feel warm inside, down where nothing else is left. The demon hisses in displeasure which is just fine by Dean because it means he can be in control for a minute. Anything to get rid of that dick, because to be perfectly honest that part of Dean scares the living shit out of him. He’s distracted from thoughts of darkness when he feels the tentative touch of Cas’s tongue, a gift he couldn’t have hoped for. Eagerly he opens up, letting Cas explore all of him and returning the favor.

Kissing Cas is a benediction. He feels renewed, and mourns the sad truth that this feeling is destined to be fleeting. If he’d known this is where they were headed, he would have surrendered his pride and kissed Cas long ago. He’d always been afraid of his vulnerability where Cas is concerned, and adamantly refused to allow Cas any greater power to hurt him than he already possessed. Now, he’s afraid of how conspicuously invulnerable he feels, and wishes for nothing more than to have retired from hunting long since and be curled up with Cas watching a movie in front of a fire right this minute, to have the time to let Cas fill up all his empty spaces.

Impossible wishes. Then again, an angel of the Lord kissing a knight of Hell like the latter is vital to his existence should be impossible, but here it is, right in his kitchen. He can’t seem to leave Cas’s mouth alone, changing angles and pressing their lips together over and over. Cas seems similarly starved for this, if the way he’s surging against Dean’s chest and tugging at his hair is any indication. Everything about this feels amazing, and Dean reflects once more on what an idiot he’s been all this time.

Only Dean Winchester would finally realize that he’s in love with an angel, right when he’s been turned into a demon.

Talk about an epic clusterfuck.

 

 

So.

Dean Winchester’s life sucks, hard.

That’s a proven fact.

And just when he begins to think it can’t suck any more, that he’s finally reached rock bottom, the universe laughs in his face and suddenly he discovers a new low.

He just hopes the universe is out of nasty tricks, because he doesn’t even want to try to imagine how his life could possibly deteriorate from here.

He sighs. Yet, he knows he’s still rolling downhill, gaining speed, and this is only a pause on his descent. It is a rather lovely pause though, especially considering the dour circumstances.

There’s an angel in his bed.

Dark eyelashes fan across Cas’s cheeks, lips parted slightly to puff out small breaths that Dean can feel on his face because they’re sharing his pillow (and holy shit is that ever surreal). He can’t help himself from running his fingers through Cas’s hair and over his face, then down to play with his fingers, careful not to wake him.

Since he’d broken down in the kitchen, Dean has tried to keep in constant physical contact with Cas. Eventually their kisses had slowed and they were content to just wrap up in each other’s arms, no words necessary; but Dean could see Cas was tired, batteries drained from his unstable grace and he needed rest. Dean can’t fall asleep himself, no matter how much he longs for the oblivion of unconsciousness. He isn’t willing to be parted from Cas right now though, so here they are.

Outside of Sam, Cas is his only constant. Sam has always been Dean’s reason for living, his mission in life, but Cas is his pleasure, and right now he’s the only thing keeping Dean sane. At least for the moment. Everything’s been turned ass over teakettle in the span of only a few hours, but the one thing that hasn’t changed over the last years is that those blue eyes look right through him and Dean is lost.

He traces a fingertip over Cas’s eyelids, butterfly-light, thinking of the look Cas had given him earlier. He can’t even name all the things he’d seen in that one glance, but it was enough to make his insides go buoyant and the tattered remnants of his soul glow brightly.

Cas had saved his soul once already; maybe he has the power to do it again.

Dean can’t help but think of Cain, and how he managed to turn himself from a bloodthirsty mercenary to a quiet, loving husband. He’d said the key was finding his wife, the woman he was meant to spend his life with, so logically Dean just has to find his key.

He has almost no idea how to do that, but based on Cain’s story and the way the glowy light perks up whenever he’s near he thinks the answer is Cas.

_She knew who I was. What I was. She loved me unconditionally. She forgave me._

Dean studies the slumbering angel before him. Cas even looks determined in his sleep. He said he’s not going to give up on Dean, that he and Sam will find a way to fix Dean. They’ll continue to stand by him, as they always have.

_She only asked for one thing._

To stop killing. That’s all Cain’s wife had asked of him. Regrettably enough, Dean’s been raised to hunt and trained all his life in the art of killing things that need killing. The problem now is that whatever inhibitions he possessed are gone, so who knows what kinds of deplorable things he’ll wind up doing? Particularly considering the messed-up shit he’s done just as his regular self up to this point; it could be annoying but ultimately harmless, or it could be badness on a level he hasn’t seen since the Pit, and really not even then because at least in the Pit he still _felt._

Cas won’t stand for that. Dean wants to be worthy of him, but he doesn’t see how that’s even possible. Even now, with their feelings newly bared, the sinuous voice in the back of Dean’s mind is speaking up, telling him to just go ahead and take what he wants because that’s the only thing that matters. No sex yet? Screw that, just go for it, shitty status quo be damned. Not good enough for an angel? Angels are sanctimonious pricks. Just want to be a normal guy? So-called normal guys are the first chumps to go when a demon gets hungry, they’re not worth wasting a thought on.

The louder that voice gets, the more Dean is plagued by the idea that he didn’t just give in to his feelings for Cas because they’d been too long denied, but that he’d finally just gone for it because what Cas wants has ceased to matter entirely.

_Is this what Sam felt like without his soul?_

It’s probably pretty close, but in this case Dean thinks there’s more to it. When Sam was temporarily lacking his soul, he’d still been Sam but without any of the empathy that truly makes him _Sam_. He’d been willing to manipulate people, to use them to his advantage uncaring of the chaos and destruction he wrought so long as his own ends were accomplished. All that is basically true of Dean now, except that instead of retaining the framework of humanity it’s more like he’s dead inside. There’s nothing but a void where his morass of battered emotions used to reside.

The demon is taking over, metastasizing without pause and dimming his ability to make rational decisions. Soon that ability will be gone as if it never existed.

It’s inevitable. But then, perhaps it was inevitable that he would end up here. After all the things he’s done, the people he’s hurt and lost, all the while justifying it to himself that it was for a good cause, and even worse, convincing Sam to do the same; perhaps this is no more than he deserves.

It brings to mind Crowley’s taunting voice, reminding Dean that people stupid enough to hang around him for any length of time always wind up dead. Or worse. And as much as the angel in his arms denies that it’s true, Dean knows it is. He saw his eyes in the mirror earlier; how much more proof do they need?

He doesn’t want Sam to see him spiral, and he can feel it in his bones: this is going to get worse before it gets better. Much worse.

He can’t be near Sam when that happens either, because the knowledge of what he can and will do to Sam when he relapses into that shark-like creature is utterly abhorrent.

He’s not even sure he should be around Cas, who has enough to worry about trying to figure out how to save himself from his slowly eroding grace.

Dean cards his fingers through the dark hair in front of him one last time and finally comes to a decision. For once in his godforsaken life he’s going to do the right thing by the people around him. _The people I love_ , he thinks, and selfishly ducks to steal one last kiss.

One last good thing, while he’s still capable of doing good things.

He’s going to leave.

 

 

Cas slits his eyes open, still motionless on the bed. Dean is moving about the room, obviously trying for stealth as he gathers clothes and boots and stuffs them into a duffel bag. In Cas’s sideways view, he sees Dean pause for a heartbeat in front of the picture of his mother that holds pride of place on his nightstand before turning away and riffling through his sock drawer once more.

Silently he sits up and swings his legs over the side of the bed, waiting for Dean to turn his way before he speaks.

“You should bring one of your FBI suits, just in case.”

Dean visibly startles. “I thought you were still asleep.”

“No.” Dean rolls his eyes. “Do you have that Led Zeppelin t-shirt you let me borrow once? It was very comfortable, I’d like to have that along as well,” he says matter-of-factly, standing to peer around Dean into the open dresser drawers.

“Cas, what are you—”

“Ah.” Pleased, he gathers the shirt and rolls it tightly, shoulders brushing as he adds it to Dean’s stockpile. “Do you have money?”

“Yeah, I have money,” Dean answers. “But Cas—”

“Good. I think it’s best to adhere to as many norms of human society as possible. You also have all of our counterfeit identification cards and badges in the Impala, yes?” Dean nods in mute exasperation. “Then we should be just about ready. Make sure you bring all of your cell phones.”

“Cas,” Dean says sharply, throwing the Zeppelin shirt back out on the bed. Cas waits expectantly. “What are you doing, man?”

“I’m coming with you, of course.” He puts the shirt back on top of Dean’s pile of plaid, carefully ignoring the long, cloth-wrapped item nestled innocuously underneath. One thing at a time.

Dean’s shoulders drop a bit. “No you’re not.”

“You are leaving, are you not? To protect Sam from the danger of being around you?” Dean fidgets on his feet and doesn’t answer. Cas nods to himself; he knows how Dean thinks. “Then as I said, I am coming with you.”

“You can’t, Cas,” Dean says quietly. “I’m not—you just can’t.”

“I don’t believe I asked your permission.”

Dean’s head snaps up, eyes narrowed, but his expression relaxes and turns more unhappy than aggressive when Cas steps right up to him, only a hand’s breadth separating their bodies.

“You’re not safe with me Cas, no one’s safe with me anymore.” Dean looks away and scratches at his chest.

“I already told you, I can take care of myself. And I can help you.”

Dean snorts cynically. “That’s real nice Cas, but I’m not too sure anyone can help me anymore.”

“I can,” he insists. “You’ve been better the last few hours that I’ve been with you.”

“Yeah but that doesn’t mean—”

“And you can’t stop me from following you,” he interrupts gently, turning Dean to sit him down on the edge of the bed.

Cas steps between Dean’s spread knees and looks down into his upturned face. Dean’s hands lift automatically to rest on his hips. “I said I would not leave you,” he grips Dean’s left shoulder, fingers splayed over the memory of a different mark, “and I meant it.” Dean looks torn, so torn between what he wants and what he knows he should do, so Cas gives him the barest fond smile. “You should learn to show me some respect.”

Dean gives a pained almost-laugh and wraps his arms fully around Cas’s hips, pulling him in and burying his face against Cas’s stomach. He shakes his head in disbelief, nose rubbing across Cas’s navel, and mumbles something brief into the fabric of his shirt.

Remembering the information Metatron ‘gifted’ to him, Cas replies, “I know.”

Rearing back without releasing his hold on Cas’s waist, Dean gapes openly at him. “Did you just…?”

Cas lifts a superior brow and smiles at him again, and then the most incredible thing happens: Dean breaks out laughing. It bubbles up from inside, from his true self, and the beautiful sound resonates through Cas’s entire being. Oh yes, he made the right decision when he chose this man all those years ago.

Dean stands, still shaking with mirth, and brings one hand up to cup Cas’s jaw. His eyes are shining and Cas basks in the captivated expression on his face. “You,” Dean says unequivocally, “are freakin’ awesome.”

“We do make quite a pair,” he agrees. Dean gives another chuckle and drops a kiss on his mouth.

Cas turns his attention to something that’s been nagging at him, tugging the collar of Dean’s shirt away to expose his clavicle. He lets out a low “hm” of understanding and skims his fingers over the raised red flesh of Dean’s tattoo. He looks back at Dean’s face, fingers still rubbing. “Has this been bothering you?”

Dean’s staring at the inflamed ink as best he can, neck awkwardly craned to the side. “Yeah,” he confirms vaguely. “Is there a bigger word for irony?” he finally asks looking back to Cas. “Because this is fucking ridiculous.”

“It is highly unlikely,” he smoothes his hand over the tattoo and it cools, skin flattening and returning to normal, “but then, Winchesters have a habit of defying expectations.”

“Fuck my life,” Dean groans. He finally drops his hands and steps back, turning serious once more. “Are you ready to go then?”

“Yes, as soon as you’re finished here.”

Dean looks around and lands pointedly on his packed bag, waiting only to be zipped and hauled out. “I’m done Cas, it’s not like I can bring the mattress with us.” Cas shakes his head. “What then?”

He gives Dean a reproving look. “Sam.”

Dean turns defensive, every line of his body screaming a denial. “No.”

“Dean.”

“ _No,_ Cas. Not happening.”

Castiel gathers his patience. “You have to say goodbye to him, Dean. You’ll only regret it later if you don’t, and then you’ll feel even worse.”

“Well I guess that’s my problem isn’t it?” Dean snaps nastily.

Cas looks at him steadily. They’re only just beginning, this is no time to waver. He has a precedent to set. Dean stalks around the room angrily, shoulders hunched around his ears. There’s nowhere for him to go though, and soon enough he has to resign himself to the fact that Cas is right. He stops, staring at a wall with his arms crossed over his chest.

Dean doesn’t make eye contact when he says, “I can’t do it, Cas.”

He moves to stand behind Dean and lays a hand on his shoulder, ignoring the added tension at his touch. “Then write him a letter,” he suggests. “He needs to hear from you directly.”

Dean is quiet for a minute. “Fine,” he acquiesces eventually.

Cas squeezes Dean’s shoulder and runs a hand down his back before stepping toward the door. “I’ll be waiting by the car.”

Confident that Dean will do as he promised, Castiel makes for the garage while Dean remains behind to try and find the words to say goodbye to the most important person in his life.

Cas doesn’t envy him the task.

 

 

Sam snuffles awake abruptly, reflexively checking his surroundings before relaxing back into his chair. He scrubs his hands through his hair a few times, then rubs the side of his face which feels oddly tacky. There’s an open book on the table in front of him—open books scattered everywhere—and he remembers. He’d fallen asleep doing research, feverishly searching for some way to save Dean.

_Dean. Shit, fuck._

He fell asleep when he was supposed to be helping Cas watch over Dean. Sam scrambles to his feet, hurrying to the kitchen where he last remembers them being alone together, but it’s empty. He frowns, but continues on. Dean’s bedroom is empty as well. All of the bedrooms are empty.

Sam ignores how his heart is started to pound and tears through the bunker, checking every place they might have gone. _No no no nononono._ If anything happened to either of them because Sam wasn’t there to help…

He winds up back in the library, at a loss, adrenaline rushing and hearing nothing but his own blood in his ears. The entire bunker is silent and still; he’s the only one there.

“Dean! Cas!” he yells futilely, knowing nobody is there to answer.

Sam tugs on his hair hard, trying not to let the panic overwhelm him. They could be anywhere right now, literally anywhere in the world, and there’s no way for him to—

His gaze falls on a piece of paper that doesn’t fit with all the dusty research tomes. He snatches it up, hoping against hope that this will tell him where they are. Oddly enough, the page was sitting on top of his phone, which he thought he’d left in his room.

Sam opens the single folded note and is immediately hit with the sight of Dean’s familiar scrawled handwriting.

He reaches blindly behind him for a chair, and sits heavily. He begins to read.

 

> _Sammy,_

> _Fuck. I don’t even know how to start this, but Cas said I had to say goodbye to you and for a nerdy dude with wings he is one pushy bastard. So here it is. I’m leaving. I gotta go, because it’s not safe for you while I’m here. Hell, the world’s probably not safe with me on the loose but what are you gonna do, you know? Shit happens._

> _I don’t know where I’m going yet, so don’t try to follow me. You stay here and do your thing, geek it up or watch some Casa Erotica or whatever. Cas is coming with me. I tried to get him to stay with you, but like I said, pushy bastard. And who knows, maybe it’ll work out, you know? He’s an angel, I’m a demon, it’s like we balance each other out. He just better not complain about the tunes, because I’m pretty sure I can kick his ass now._

> _This is probably the last time I’m gonna be this coherent for a while, so don’t expect any reach out and touch someone style phone calls. You probably won’t like what answers back._

> _I meant what I said before though._

> _Take care of yourself little bro._

> _Dean_

Sam’s chest is trying to cave in on itself, and it hurts to breathe. Everything he has is telling him to stomp this bullshit letter into the floor and go racing after his brother, demanding that he be included, just like when he used to tag along after Dean while he flirted with the girl who worked at the movie theater.

He knows he can’t though, because Dean was right; there’s no brother for him to follow anymore, only a stranger. He has Cas with him though, so that’s something at least. Which reminds him—he rubs his traitor eyes which are blurring uncontrollably, and reaches for his mysteriously appeared cell phone. There’s one new text message on it.

**> >Cas:** _My apologies for the abrupt departure Sam, but we had to leave. Keep working on finding a solution to restore Dean and I’ll check in with you periodically. Stay away for your own safety. I’ll watch over your brother._

Sam’s throat tightens painfully and he tosses his phone back on the table with a clatter. The note flutters slowly to the floor as Sam lets his head fall into his hands, and the only sound in the room is the wet, hitching wheeze of his breath.

_Help him, Cas,_ he prays. _Help him get back. I need you guys._

Threading through his prayers and the black morass of grief is the echo of Dean’s voice, faint and far away. Driving him. Mocking him.

_I’m proud of us._

 ***

 

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, I made Cas quote himself. Sue me.
> 
> I didn't have time to read through this for edits like I usually do because I wanted to post it before tonight, so I'll finish going through it later and possibly make some small corrections. I'm so excited for season 10 tonight! Also worried. I can't decide.  
> Update: I finished my read-through and made my small changes, so I'm calling this one officially done.
> 
> I think I'm going to work on something fluffy after this.
> 
> P.S. if you didn't catch what Dean mumbled into Cas's shirt or why Cas's reply made him laugh, 1) you should be ashamed of yourself for missing the reference, but 2) here watch [this](http://youtu.be/sO-KR-14uXM) so you know.


End file.
